A man.

"Shed your armor," Olana says, and you do, piece by piece, as she watches with crossed arms. Her eyes note your every motion, linger on your skin as you reveal yourself. Finally you are as nude as she is, and she lifts an eyebrow as she appraises your rising cock.

"They do not feed men properly where you come from," she says, her voice deep, but soft with humor. She reaches out a strong hand, fingers your chin. "But you are...well-made."

"Thank you."

"It is the truth."

She caresses your throat, your collarbone, the muscles of your chest. Her touch is feather-light.

"Let us begin," she says.